


rivalry (or revelry)

by klismaphilia



Category: Original Work, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Body Modification, Character Study, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sith Politics, Sith Training, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 01:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21153575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/klismaphilia
Summary: A scorned Sith ruminates on a future that was never meant for her to attain. She is not the Emperor's Wrath - no, that title belongs toChannery Aerial,a warrior whose strength Phaedra can't help but covet.





	rivalry (or revelry)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FullMetamorphosis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullMetamorphosis/gifts).

> written a fair amount of time ago for TJ - who, regardless of the ups and downs we've had, will always have a special place in the twisted metal of my heart.

Phaedra loathes her mind.

She loathes how twisted it has grown, how malleable and weak_, _ prone to errors even in her better judgment. She loathes the feeling of envy, the way it seeps into her rage enough to make her seethe at the mere thought of another’s superiority, another’s display of power or of… _ strength. _ She loathes her enmity, because while hatred should be nurtured, it should not _ overwhelm, _ and certainly it should not overwhelm a being such as _ her, _ devoted and driven and made to be a harbinger of death and destruction across the battlefield.

Phaedra is better than any _ organic _ creature is capable of being; she was created to be a Warrior, created to be the future of the galaxy… and she does not give pause to her own rationality, does not focus on her own emotion. To have emotion is to be human_, _and humans are unspeakably weak.

But _ she _wasn’t, was she?

The girl was practically a child-- young, and perhaps pretty, in an uncanny sort of way. Rage seemed to flow in her blood, and her body glistened with the staining presence of uncouth pragmatism, the damned glow of emotion itself. But dark as she was, the child was almost beautiful, pale, white-blonde locks and cracks shorn through her porcelain skin at the height of her corruption. She was not like the other fools she’d been made to suffer, and certainly nothing like the Emperor_, _ that wretched whore who thought himself a god. But even he was better than _ Baras, _the spiteful worm who considered himself clever enough to dismantle an Empire, to sway the people by claiming he was above the station he’d been assigned.

Phaedra could appreciate that, at least-- the desire to be seen_, _to command and dominate others at will. And even Channery had not yet been able to master that feat… but she was…

_ Frustrating. _

Perhaps it was the madness with which the younger Warrior carried herself, or the manner in which she projected her own shortcomings onto those around her, just as she did her own strength; perhaps it was the realization of the burden that laid over those delicate shoulders and supple breasts, the burden of something that a human could never overcome.

As a weapon, Phaedra was hardly the epitome of stability herself; but her flesh had been trained to endure, just as the steel of her bones and the metal embedded in her chest, her arms, her head_. _ Her clan was prized for fortitude as much as stability, and yet others had the nerve to call them brutes_, _ the cyborg Warlords built from the bones of Tyth himself. She had learned to hurt just as she had learned to kill, to maim and to subjugate without restraint. She had pushed herself to the brink of death and pulled herself back from it_, _ remaking her own organics and replacing them with technology just as her father had once done, and _ force, _ how she’d understood strength then!

But this girl, this… _ child. _ The Sith thought her greater, more powerful than Phaedra would ever be, with her slight stature and brittle outer-layers, the few human parts of her body that remained. Channery was their _ savior, _ their _ strength, _ their _ Emperor’s Wrath, _ and pfaask_, _ how it disgusted her! A mere girl surpassing the name of the Xianrith Clan’s most prized daughter, spitting on her simply by existing…

And it was so wrong, wasn’t it, that Phaedra _ wanted _her.

Oh, she wanted to take Channery apart, wanted to see what made her tick, what made her writhe and squeal and break under the grasp of another’s hands and the tip of another’s blade. She wanted to watch that beautiful organic blood of hers leak from her flayed skin, watch the sweet, glorious red leak down her neck, her torso, her thighs. She wanted to _ tear _ into her and destroy her with her teeth, her nails, her thoughts_, _ split apart her chest cavity and feel her heart in her hands, know each throbbing beat of her motivation, of her… calamity.

Tyth’s name, Channery was a seraph. Rich and full of sustenance, like the sweetest ambrosia the gods had ever been allowed to taste, so tempting that even a heartless cyborg felt drawn to her and the caustic power she emitted. And as much as Phae longed to take the girl apart, there was something she wanted _ more, _something she… coveted.

_ To make her like myself. _

If only Channery could be part of her collection. If only she could be reshaped, could be twisted into a thing of plasteel and durasteel and technolithic nerves built for calculating, built for… destruction. If only the girl would train at _her_ side, learn to rebuild herself in alignment with the weakness of her enemies, in consideration to the triviality of philosophical connotation. Phaedra would lay her out atop the finest of silks and caress her milky skin, her inner darkness, would worship the pitch of her insides as it learned to blend with cybernetics, as Channery’s legs parted for her and her back arched in that lovely, perfect curve she’d examined as her rival stretched, or laid in her bed at night. She wanted to bury her face between Channery’s thighs and force her tongue inside that pretty cunt of hers, make her writhe in pleasure, wanted to see the blissed-out expression of loathing on Channery’s features as she looked down at the cyborg between her legs, biting at her thighs and marking her until her lips were stained with the rich Mandalorian blood the girl had claim to.

She wanted to know what Channery looked like in the throws of arousal, wanted to understand how she’d feel, clenching around Phaedra’s fingers as they probed deep within her center, dragging the ache of pure adrenalin out from her core in sharp, rapid movements, curling and twisting and trying to drag her spirit out from her bleeding pussy the same as her slick release. She craved the thought of suckling at the skin of her breasts, of biting at her flesh until the skin had gone purple and black from the constant attention, of clawing demandingly at her hips and back until Channery gave in and had her as well. She wanted to feel Channery come, to sense the force pulsing with it as her own body grew frantic with the demand to sate itself, even when she was more machine than human, more _ droid _than primitive organic.

To see the girl standing before the entirety of the council now spared Phaedra nothing, especially when her presence was accompanied by the cooling rot of Baras’ reeking corpse, his mask carelessly discarded on the floors of the Council Chamber. Her hands were clasped tight around the hilts of her twin sabers, flared red as the blood splattered over the ground, soaking the ornate tile under her feet. She almost bows, everything about her being haughty and fraught with wickedness, a testament to how far corruption can take those cast aside, a paragon of the Dark.

Phaedra bites her own lip, her hands planted firmly on either side of her council seat, fingers curled around the long arms as the acrid tang of her metallic blood floods her mouth. The taste is nauseating to her, especially with Channery standing so close, _just _beyond her reach and influence… it is nauseating because Phaedra does not long to taste her own blood, the revolting silver ichor doing nothing to give her comfort. But Channery, too, is covered in blood, spilling it from her swelling wounds, full of promise and potential and influence, and stars, Darth Rulanzel wants to drink it all up, to seal their lips in a searing kiss until Channery’s gone breathless with need.

The girl looks up, her eyes a beautiful red as they meet Phaedra’s own callous, dead gaze. But she does not find emptiness in the older Warrior’s eyes, as so many seem to. Instead, she laughs, if only for the briefest of seconds, as though she can see right into the Dark Lord’s very soul.

Phaedra Xianrith-- the Cyborg Warlord and Heir of Tyth’s Blade, the frigid Sith weapon Darth Rulanzel herself-- _ smiles. _

And Channery-- scorned child of Clan Aerial, Reaper of Chaos and Ruin, the newly-named Emperor’s Wrath-- grins maniacally back.


End file.
